So sorry for the long delay! Thank you, all reviewers, for the lovely long reviews and support.

This is probably my favourite chapter so far (maybe apart from The Valley), it was good fun to write - enjoy!

The Ashleg Chronicles, Chapter Twelve: The Deception

Jegg was tired. He'd been walking for ages. It was dark now. Why hadn't anyone come and found him yet? Mama always came to look for him if he wandered off.

He'd thought it would be better out in the forest. The nasty creatures who had come into his home without asking had scared him, so he'd run to the safety of the green trees. But now he couldn't find his way back, and there was no one to help him get home. Why hadn't they found him? Jegg sat down at the roots of a large tree and sulked. Big otters should be able to find little ones. It was their job.

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Ashleg sat at the edge of the fire, trying to stay awake.

It was his watch, and he'd only been awake half an hour at most. But his old wounds were aching in the balmy night, and he was distracted by the odd, sharp stabs of pain lancing through his torso along the twisted scar lines. He shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable – but then he doubled up and hissed a curse as agony seized him around the waist. It was always worse on humid, warm nights like this.

He slowly eased himself back upright and leant against the oak tree, breathing heavily. As the pain faded, he heard something out in the forest.

Ashleg froze, listening hard. There was silence, apart from the soft rustling of leaves overhead. But he had heard something out of the ordinary, he was absolutely sure of it.

He listened for a few minutes more, hearing nothing. Eventually he gave up and relaxed his alertness. A woodpigeon cooed somewhere off to the west.

And then the night exploded as dark shapes bounded into the clearing from the undergrowth, blades gleaming in the moonlight. Ashleg yelled in shock and started upwards, grabbing the first blade that came to paw – and fell back screaming as his damaged body refused to obey him. A cloaked figure stood over him, drawing back a club to knock him out.

Too late he realised: No woodpigeons at night –

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Consciousness came slowly, and for while, the comatose Ashleg wandered between death and the barrier that kept him from returning to his senses. His mind went haywire, shooting images and feelings through him at random. He tried to open his eyes, but darkness kept them closed, and panic brought him out of the unconsciousness as he remembered waking up after the healers had taken his infected leg –

With a great effort, Ashleg flickered his eyelids and light, blessed light, flooded into his mind. His tensed limbs relaxed.

There was a dull ache in his stump of a leg. It felt like the wooden peg had slipped loose as well. For a second Ashleg was thrown back to a dark day at Kotir, where Tsarmina had commanded him to run in front of the army. It had almost killed him. An unfounded, senseless fear gripped his chest – could it be her? Could Tsarmina have tracked him down and taken him and the others captive?

Of course, he was being stupid. How could Tsarmina have followed him in the first place? And anyway, she wouldn't bother with him. To her, he was only an ageing, dim-witted servant of her father's.

Breaking out of his wandering thoughts, Ashleg tried to move. But all his paws were bound and his mouth gagged. He blinked again, trying to see though the daze of light. There were no trees to be seen; a huge brown shape in front of him appeared to be some kind of tent. He was lying on hard, dry ground and he instinctively knew there was another canvas roof above his head. If he strained to hear, the sounds of creatures talking and the clank of weapons were coming from outside the tent somewhere. There was no doubt about it; this was the vermin camp, and Ashleg was a prisoner.

His head throbbed. He knew if he tried to move much more, his wounds would protest – and he could remember all too well the pain they caused him when he over-stretched himself. But he couldn't see Caelan, Ley or Brome from where he lay, and he had to know if they were alive.

Preparing himself, Ashleg took a deep breath – and wrenched his body over so he was facing the other way. Agony ripped through him and he cried out, but the pain had not been for nothing; he could see Brome's light brown fur, and beyond him the bright colours of Caelan's clanmarks. Ashleg sighed in relief.

But then he heard footsteps, and in his peripheral vision he could see a black ferret entering the tent. The scrawny-looking vermin walked over to Ashleg and nudged him lightly with a footpaw. "Yer awake, then. Took ye long enough. What were ye doin' with this sorry lot then, eh, mate?"

Ashleg stared dumbly back up at his captor for a second. Of course, he probably looked as bad and worse as many vermin in the horde – why wouldn't this ferret wonder at his apparent association with the woodlanders?

But, he realised, this was a situation he could turn to his advantage. The ferret looked rather simple, likely to judge mainly on appearances; if he could spin a reasonable story, the creature might be persuaded to release him.

He faked a coughing fit to give himself time to think. There were many possible alibis running through his head, but none of them would explain him staying in a woodlander camp. Even as he thought of and discarded ideas at lightning speed, he realised that if this horde was anything like the ones he'd been in, the common beasts' fear of their leader would probably prevent them from acting against his word.

He had to use that fear against them. But how?

Then, as he cleared his throat, inspiration came. What had Tesey told him was the horde leader's name? Owlrider, that was it.

"You fool," he growled at the ferret. "Untie me at once. I need to see the Owlrider."

The ferret looked confused for a second. Then he guffawed loudly. "Hah, y'don't fool me. That's the oldest trick there is."

"Idiot!" snarled Ashleg. "Did you really think I was with them?" He gestured to his unconscious friends. "I'm the Owlrider's spy, his special envoy, dirtbrain. I need to speak with him, now. He won't be happy if he hears I was kept against my will."

The ferret's eyes widened and he went pale under his scraggy fur. "The – the Owlrider's special envoy?"

"That's what I said, ferret."

"Sorry, sir, sorry! I had orders – " The ferret sprang to, untying Ashleg's bonds with clumsy paws. "Don't mention me to the Owlrider, please sir – "

Ashleg got to his feet, grabbing his crutch from where it had been thrown. He stumped imperiously out of the tent, brushing the gabbling ferret aside irritably.

It was dawn now, and the main activity of the camp was over to the west, where a large fire was smouldering and breakfast was being distributed to the hordebeasts. Ashleg looked around carefully, taking down a mental plan of the camp for later use.

Vermin were beginning to drift away from their meal, so it wouldn't be practical to attempt a rescue of his friends at the moment, although it would be easy enough to slip away into the forest and hide. He could try to free the others once the coast was clear.

But involuntarily, Ashleg remembered several things; the flash of the sun on Caelan's golden sword as she fought, the joy in Urran Voh's eyes when he spoke of his dreams of a wholly peaceful Noonvale, the grim tone in Tesey's voice when she spoke of her visions. The memory of the burial service after the first clash with the horde.

Somehow, it now felt like his duty to help end this war in any way he could. He didn't reckon anyone would recognise him – after all, it had been night when he was captured, and the attackers wouldn't have looked too closely at his face. The only creature who had really seen him was now convinced he was of special rank.

Turning on his one remaining heel, Ashleg made his way into the heart of the camp.